A Dangerous Disadvantage
by Amanda N. Lupin
Summary: AU Richenbach Moriarty seeks to burn the heart out of Sherlock, but fire spreads quickly. Will the world's only consulting detective and his blogger be strong enough to survive it? Or will their feelings for each other prove a dangerous disadvantage?
1. Chapter 1

The burns were extensive. Sherlock couldn't see them, but the considerable number of bandages that enveloped his face suggested Moriarty had done a thorough job. The painkillers were doing their job, but god the bandages itched like mad. The young man struggled to remember how he had found himself in the hospital. Besides the doctor who had just left him, the last thing he could recall was Moriarty's face, writhing on the ground in pain, and John frantically calling his name, before his world had gone black. What had Jim thrown in his face? "John," Sherlock called uncertainly.

"Yes Sherlock, I'm here," John replied softly from his bedside.

"Are you alright," the detective asked concernedly. John struggled to keep his composure. He was fine not a hair on his head was out of place, but at a terrible cost.

"I'm fine," John managed to choke out.

"Good," Sherlock replied softly, offering a weak smile. He could deal with his own injuries later. John was safe.

"Moriarty," Sherlock asked.

"Lestrade caught him, they showed up just after you passed out."

"Anderson wasn't there to see it was he," Sherlock grimaced. "Or Donovan?"

John hesitated. Both had been present, but he doubted given the situation they had arrived on either would ever mention as much no matter how much they disliked the man. John could still see the scene in his head-Sherlock's inhuman screams, fingers frantically clawing at his bloody face. The silence that following his slipping out of consciousness may even have been worse. Only the fact his chest still shakily rose and fell assured the doctor he was still alive. The wounds seemed restricted to his face where Moriarty had thrown the liquid at him. The blood made it difficult to say for certain, but John had suspected and the doctor just confirmed it was some sort of acid. At the sound of sirens John broke down and wept. "No," John said finally. "They weren't there Sherlock." He was lying, Sherlock could hear it, in his voice and the pause to think about it before his reply. Whatever had happened to him it must have been bad, he couldn't remember a previous occasion when John had lied to him. Sherlock paused, could that be true? People lied all the time, it was just human nature wasn't it? To never lie would require a great deal of restraint and self-control. The question was why go to such trouble? But then, if he never seemed to lie it would be easy to conceal and overlook one considerable lie in plain sight, wouldn't it? Thank merciful heavens a case to puzzle over, he couldn't imagine lying in this hospital bed with nothing to do. Boring. But this... this was intriguing. What would john have to lie about, and why would he lie?

John felt as though the bedside chair he occupied was burning him, torn between an intense desire to flee from the pain of seeing his friend like this, and the guilt that he had helped cause this that made him stay. How could he leave him here like this, who else would come to visit him and keep him company until they released him? Whatever his faults, there was nothing Lestrade or the law could do to Moriarty now that would see justice served.  
He was trying to work up the courage to apologize, Sherlock didn't have to be able to see the other man to sense it. "Didn't you have a date with Sarah tonight," Sherlock asked curiously, attempting to distract him.

John shook his head before realizing how ridiculously wasted this gesture now was. "No," John replied softly. "We broke up," he admitted. He couldn't say why he was telling his flatmate this, or why he hadn't said as much before when it had happened, except that he expected a lot of questions might follow. He no more looked forward to them now, but it seemed the least he could do for Sherlock was to provide him with something to talk about and pass the time. He couldn't possibly make anything out of it anyway, John thought dismissively.

"She found out you were interested in someone else," Sherlock replied immediately. "Oh don't look so surprised John," Sherlock continued, knowing instinctively the other man's mouth had fallen open. "I've known it for months, and Sarah is no Molly, though it's a wonder it took her this long to figure it out."

"What," John spluttered. How could he possibly know that? Bingo, Sherlock thought smirking slightly. He'd never tell, but the idea had really been little more than conjecture based on the frequency John spoke of or spent any time with her. That and the fact he seemed relatively calm and untroubled by the fact someone he had been trying to "get off" with had not so much as allowed him to sleep in the same bed in their four months of 'dating.' A ruse, and not even a clever one, Sherlock thought to himself.

"You aren't certain they are mutually interested, you haven't told them, otherwise you might have stopped seeing Sarah some time ago when it was clear it wasn't going anywhere," Sherlock continued, as John stared on in disbelief. "Which begs the question why you would be so unsure and not just tell the other person. You are a handsome, fit, intelligent enough, young man..." John half-smiled, 'intelligent enough' was probably as close as Sherlock would ever come to complimenting him. Though handsome seemed a matter of opinion rather than his stating it like a fact. Did the detective think he was handsome, John thought blushing slightly. "You have never had any trouble picking up women before," Sherlock reasoned. "Unless it isn't a woman at all," he tested. The moment's silence was all he needed. "Ah, I suspected as much."

"How in the hell..."

Fascinating Sherlock thought puzzling it over. He suspected his flatmate may have been suppressing some homosexual tendencies based upon his occasional suggestions that "it was all fine" if Sherlock were to wish to date someone, and his stubborn insistence to the contrary when anyone accused them of being a couple. Likely he resisted based on his upbringing and disapproval for his sister Harry's behavior. Being a lesbian may have been all fine, they had encountered several gay individuals in their cases together and John had had no problem then, but an unfaithful one was more than his moral code could support. This ruled out homophobia, which left only one logical conclusion for becoming so insistent and upset when others thought the pair of them were together, denial of his own attractions to the same sex, or perhaps even himself.

"You're gay," Sherlock concluded, though he still waited for his friend's confirmation.


	2. Chapter 2

"Irene told you," John replied sounding nervous. Hmm, not the reaction he had been expecting, but a confirmation nonetheless. Sherlock hadn't thought the pair of them had warmed to one another enough for any sort of heart to heart chats, but Irene was a brilliant woman in her own right, perhaps she too had worked it out for herself.

"Told me what?"

"That I'm gay," John replied simply. "Who I'm in..." John cut himself off before he could say anything more incriminating, though he would be surprised as far as he'd come even in his current state if Sherlock didn't figure it out soon enough. John felt as though his stomach had dropped out, and fought the impulse to run from the room once more. He was in love with whomever the man was then, Sherlock thought surprised. Well John Watson, you have managed to surprise me, Sherlock thought impressed. He hadn't thought with his reluctance to trust John would fall for someone so readily.

"So it's someone you've met at work," Sherlock reasoned aloud, continuing to ignore his companion's sputtering. "The doctor doesn't work the same days or shifts as you so it must be someone we've met on our cases..."

"What does it matter Sherlock," John managed finally finding his voice once more.

"It must matter a great deal if you want me to drop it," Sherlock replied softly.

"Come on Sherlock, that's enough. I don't want to talk about it anymore. We should discuss what we're going to do when you are released."

"Should we?"

"Damnit Sherlock," John swore.

"How can you be so bloody calm," he shouted. He couldn't take it anymore, couldn't bear another minute of Sherlock deducing as if nothing had happened, slowly drawing nearer and nearer to the only possible conclusion to be drawn: that John was in love with him. What did any of that matter now? It wasn't as if Sherlock had ever shown any romantic interest in him, or anybody for that matter. Was he gay? Bisexual? Asexual? After all this John thought he would count himself lucky if the world's only consulting detective was speaking to him. Damn Moriarty.

"Why are you so upset John?"

"How is it you're not," John replied exhausted.

"Didn't you hear what the doctor said? Don't you understand what Moriarty did to you?"

"I heard him John, there's nothing wrong with my ears, but to be perfectly honest there's only one doctor's opinion I care about," Sherlock replied gently.

Just tell me it's okay John, that you aren't going anywhere, Sherlock thought uncharacteristically vulnerably. But of course he couldn't bring himself to say it, couldn't put that kind of pressure on his friend who was clearly already feeling overwhelmed. He wanted to reach out, to take his hand to offer it a squeeze, or some minimal sort of comforting gesture. Wasn't that was what people did when someone they cared about was upset? But John sounded too far away from his bed, and as he couldn't see trying to find that hand might prove difficult, not to mention look ridiculous.

"I can't give you a different diagnosis," John replied with a bitter forced laugh Sherlock didn't like.

"I never asked you to John."

"You might never see again! You may be blind for the rest of your life Sherlock," John shouted, only lowering his voice when a passing nurse glared at him.

"It's okay..."

"No Sherlock it's not. It is not okay!"

"I'm okay," Sherlock corrected patiently. "I'll be okay."

"How are you going to do cases if you can't see?"

"I won't," he replied simply, shrugging.

"But what will you do?"

"I don't know John."

"And you're okay with this," John asked incredulously.

"It's someone else's turn now. Maybe Lestrade with step up to the plate and surprise us all."

"No one will ever be as good as you."

"Oh, I doubt that. There will be someone, some day, perhaps even better than me and I'll fade into the background and halls of history." John couldn't recall a time when Sherlock hadn't sounded egotistical, and found he didn't like it.

"And you're okay with that," John repeated. Sherlock shrugged once more.

"If I'm not taking cases anymore I'm not a threat. If I'm not a threat they've no reason to come after you."

"Me? You're afraid of what will happen to me?"

"Terrified," Sherlock confessed, and for once John was happy he couldn't see the detective's eyes, because his voice alone conveyed enough honesty and conviction that John fought the urge to weep for the second time that night. Asking about how he was... Now that he thought about it, that was the first question he had asked the last time Moriarty had caught him, after every chase and close call. Are you alright?

"John as long as any criminal with brains is after me they will come after you. I've been thinking about it since we met Moriarty at the pool, but this confirmed it, they can't hold him forever, and even if they could there will always be others. I can't lose you John. You're safe, so I'm okay."

"No Sherlock, that's not fair. You get hurt and life goes on, but if there's a chance I might be in danger you give up and throw in the towel?" Just how helpless did he think he was, John thought indignantly.

"He was going to make you drink it John. Before you came up to the roof, he told me. He was going to kill you, slowly, painfully. You're a doctor, you know what even the mildest acid does to your insides. He was going to make you suffer until the last minutes of your life and make me watch you die. You're alive. You're sitting next to me, talking to me. That's worth my sight. Any day. Every time. Even if it never comes back," Sherlock confessed.


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm not worth it. I'm not that important," John replied softly, trying not to think about what the scene Sherlock described that he had been late to stumble into might have looked like. The world was losing a brilliant mind with Sherlock. How many cases would go unsolved, untouched because of his sacrifice? What would have been lost if it had been him instead?

"Shut up John, of course you are. John you are important to me. I'd be lost..."

"Without your blogger," John finished sarcastically.

"Without you, John. With or without the blog."

"You wouldn't have any trouble finding a new sounding board and publicist."

"Wouldn't I," Sherlock asked, unconvinced.

"I'm not the most agreeable or easiest man to live with. You understand me, you put up with my arrogance, you help keep me honest and level, you are brilliant," Sherlock admitted, stealing John's words.

"You see so many things that I would miss. Have I really made you feel your only worth to me was as someone to throw ideas at and write about my exploits? I need you John."

Sherlock knew he was not the best man where expressing his emotions and feelings were concerned. By and large he tried to avoid having any, it seemed an easier and safer route to go, but he had never been able to where John was concerned. Not from the moment they had met in the lab, not even at the pool in front of Moriarty when their very lives had depended upon it, there was just something about him. Had he become so good at concealing his emotions he had hurt the very man he would do anything to protect?

"I love you," John blurted out accidentally.

Damnit! Great job genius, John thought furiously mentally kicking himself for being so careless and stupid. But how could he help it? Sherlock had never said as much to him before. Sure, he knew his flatmate cared about him, the fact that he was rubbish at expressing as much wasn't, at least entirely, his fault. But what had he done? Sherlock admitted he was more than just his blogger and sounding board, but he was probably talking about them being friends, he certainly hadn't professed any sentiments of undying love as he just had.

"I know," Sherlock replied softly. John snorted, of course he did. "I just wanted to hear you say it."

That was not the reaction John had anticipated, and for a moment John couldn't find any words to respond. Yes where they had encountered it Sherlock had seemed to take a subject in a case's homosexuality in stride, but he seemed altogether unfazed both by the confirmation that John was gay, and in love with him. Maybe he got that all the time, John thought grimly. He was an extremely attractive man, by any gender or orientation's standards. Jim had given him his mobile number when they had first been introduced, John thought bitterly. He tried to push the thoughts of Moriarty out of his mind once more, hoping he might just stay forgotten, not talked about, to rot in his jail cell, but even that would have been too kind. Steeling his courage John managed to glance once more at Sherlock's once beautiful, and now heavily bandaged face.

He'd done this. He was every bit as guilty for his friend's present condition as Moriarty himself. If he'd been more careful. If he'd just shot him the moment he burst through the door and onto the roof with the pair of them Moriarty would never have had the opportunity to hurt him.

"You have to let it go John," Sherlock whispered softly interrupting his thoughts. "It's not your fault he outsmarted both of us. Please John," Sherlock continued. "I don't want to lose you to some misplaced sense of guilt. It's not your fault. I don't blame you, and I don't regret it. I'd give my life to keep you safe if he'd demanded it. There's nothing I would not do for you John. He was right about one thing, you are my heart John. You're the best of me," Sherlock concluded. "You always were."

Damnit Sherlock, John thought furiously, feeling the tears he had been fighting finally spill over. It was at that exact and most inopportune time that the elder Holmes knocked on the door.

"Ah John," Mycroft said casually, as though surprised to see him attending to his brother. "I wonder if I might have a brief word with my brother." John couldn't make out much of his companion's face through his bandages, but he imagined it scrunched in it's usual expression of displeasure at the prospect of interacting with his elder brother.

"I'll be right outside the door if you need me," John promised softly, reluctantly leaving the two Holmes alone to speak, Sherlock nodded. Oh how he wished he could see, even just shadows, to seek out the man's hand, just to touch him, if only for a moment... But he heard the door shut with a soft click, and Mycroft's umbrella clicking against the tile floor, as he pulled the chair beside him. Anthea, if that was even her real name, sat outside the room offering a pointed stare to the chair beside her. John accepted seized it gratefully, but after determining no amount of strain would allow him to hear the conversation in the room beyond, took instead to pacing the hallway. If the smirk were any indication, this seemed to amuse the silent woman who kept him company, but Anthea refrained from comment, merely pulling out her phone to compose a message. John didn't much like the look on the elder Holmes' face as he left the the room, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. John couldn't think of anything there was to be so happy about at the moment, particularly where Sherlock was concerned. Certainly the two had a strained relationship, but was it really that bad? It didn't matter, at least not enough to keep John puzzling over it and detain him from returning to his flatmate's bedside.

"You should go home John, everyone knows no one actually sleeps in a hospital, and you could use some."

John frowned he was right of course, John couldn't remember the last time he had slept, they had been running for days it seemed in pursuit of Jim, and his last top off of coffee was beginning to lose it's hold over him. But maybe that was a good thing, would allow him to sleep even in the uncomfortable chair the nurses had supplied for him. He doubted he would truly get any more sleep in his own bed than he might here where he might at least keep watch over his friend. Did Sherlock really want him to leave?

"What did Mycroft say," John asked, deciding to ignore the other man's suggestion. Sherlock sighed rather heavily wishing for just a moment he could see John once more while he spoke to him. This conversation would be difficult enough without being handicapped to observe the way his flatmate was taking it.

"Nothing very kind, but nothing untruthful either, but then for all his love of pastries, Mycroft has never been one to sugarcoat anything," Sherlock replied finally. The detective struggled to find the right words, knowing all the while any way he said it was going to mean hurting the man he cared about most was likely inevitable. "John, I... there's nothing I can give you anymore," Sherlock concluded.

"What are you talking about?"

"You said it yourself John, I may never get my sight back. There won't be any more cases or running around London, jumping across rooftops... I've done everything I could, and you're safe. All I can do now is hold you back. If you stay with me John, I will cripple you."

"No," John replied immediately, shaking his head violently even as he realized his companion wouldn't be able to see this. "No Sherlock, that's not true. Do you know I haven't needed my cane once since that say we met. You could never cripple me, you've healed me."

"You healed yourself John, every case we solved, lives you saved, you were able to let go a little more of the guilt and lives you couldn't save in the army. You don't need me, I'll only undo all your progress you already blame yourself for this, even though you couldn't have stopped me if you'd wanted to."

"Did Mycroft put you up to this? What did he say to you?" It had to be Mycroft, John thought, this wasn't his Sherlock. It had to be the eldest Holmes' that had affected this sudden change in him.

"It's not illogical John."

"Damn logic," John swore."And damn Mycroft," he added suddenly. "This isn't what you really want is it Sherlock?"

"I can't love you John," Sherlock replied softly. It wasn't a complete lie, the man thought, trying to rationalize the heartache he could palpably feel he was causing, I don't know how he thought fearfully.


	4. Chapter 4

"Doesn't matter," John replied quickly. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I never should have said... it just sort of spilled out. I know... that is I don't expect you to..." the doctor stammered.

"You really think it doesn't matter, that you could live under the same roof, go back to the way things were? Still in love with me and always knowing I never will?"

John couldn't help the tears anymore, but was grateful they were silent, perhaps the detective wouldn't notice... He'd known of course that this was a possibility. Suspected as much, he'd never truly planned to tell him. He knew if Sherlock was the 'high-functioning sociopath' he'd diagnosed himself to be he was more likely to be asexual than return he, or Molly's feelings for him. Somehow though, some small part of him had dared to hope, and now felt foolish.

"I don't understand," John replied finally. "But I'll let you rest it's been a really long day for both of us," the doctor concluded. Perhaps in the morning, with a little time and space, Sherlock would have a change of heart. "Goodnight Sherlock," he whispered tearfully, as he pulled the door shut behind him.

"Goodbye John," Sherlock replied softly, though he knew he'd already left.

John almost wished he had a car, not because he wanted to go anywhere a cab couldn't take him, but just a place to sleep without actually leaving the hospital. He was lucky they had even let him stay in the room with Sherlock as the evening had worn on, but he supposed being the world's only consulting detective probably curried a certain amount of favor and pull. Or perhaps it was Mycroft's doing, but somehow he doubted that. Whatever the case, it was difficult for the doctor to fathom just leaving Sherlock alone in his room, with only the nurses checking in on him to keep him company. He supposed the man had never really noticed or had much need for company before, but he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps this particular injury and handicap it bore with it might have humbled and left him more vulnerable than he was willing to admit. Unable to think of returning to an empty Baker street, he found himself opening an almost unused contact book in his phone and dialing Harry.

He wasn't disappointed, or perhaps wasn't surprised to find her tipping off her barstool at a local pub chatting up men and women alike for 'one more drink,' three since he'd arrived, each of which she'd bombed as though it were nothing more than water. She wasn't about to win any sister of the year awards, but John found he desperately needed someone to talk to. Normally it would have been Sherlock, or maybe he supposed this was why people had therapists, but he'd stopped seeing her almost simultaneously with meeting and moving in with the detective. One of the few things he and Mycroft had ever seen eye to eye on, she wasn't very good. Harry probably won't even remember this in the morning, John reasoned trying to work up the courage to speak.

"Haven't seen you in ages baby brother. Must be bad if you're turning to little ol' me," she hiccuped.

"What happened to your mate I keep reading about, Shylock?"

"Sherlock," John corrected, although this was probably unnecessary as he felt sure in her present state given the opportunity she would once again misrepresent the name.

"Yeah him," Harry replied, waving her hand dismissively.

"He's in the hospital, there was an accident," John managed shakily.

"Hospital, blimey well what are you doing here for? You should be at hospital with him then shouldn't yeh? You're the best doctor there is." She was absolutely pissed, but the compliment had a ring of sincerity to it, and John thought for a moment he saw rare flash of Harry before booze and bitterness had corrupted her.

"I screwed it up Harry, all of it, everything... It was supposed to be me, he got hurt protecting me."

"I knew it," Harriet whooped triumphantly, pumping her fist in the air, before falling back into her chair, dizzily clutching her head with a groan before continuing. "Army didn't beat it out of you then eh? Or maybe you joined because you fancy a man in a uniform... Does that make you hot under those stuff collars of yours? What does Sherly wear," she asked grinning.

"What," John spluttered surprised, as intoxicated as she was he had to admit he was rather taken aback by how quickly she had caught on to the full extent of the situation. "My baby brother," Harry marveled, "a pillow-biter. Queer as a four pound note. Just like me. That why you're here then, only I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've heard from you since I gave you that thing," she said, gesturing to the phone where it sat on the table. "No more Watsons then. So do you pitch or catch Johnny," Harriet snickered.

John cringed. This is not what he'd come to talk about or making him feel any better. "We haven't had sex Harry, and that's not really any of your business." And I am nothing like you, John thought.

"Still a virgin then. What happened did you come on to him and he turned you down? What's he in hospital for, have a bit of a domestic, did we?"

"Never," John replied instantly. "I would never hurt him." Harriet shook her head.

"Then what are you doing here little brother? He's in the hospital and you're not there, you don't think that's hurting him?"

"He didn't want me there."

"Bullocks. Wait what sort of accident was it? His dick didn't fall off or nothing did it?" Harry may have been fighting her eighth drink, struggling to remain conscious, but the shock as John forced himself to plough through the story of everything that had happened that afternoon was written all over her face."Bloody christ, just what the hell do the two of you get into? Bail now, while you still can. Blindness? He'll be a leech on your life forever, you don't want to make that kind of commitment if you don't have to."

"Just because commitment doesn't mean anything to you, doesn't mean it's worthless to me too," John replied with slight bitterness. "I love him Harry, I'm not like you, that means something to me. I'm not going to run out just because something is scary or unpleasant."

"Think you're so smart, clever little Johnny. Fancy you're brave for sticking with him? You're a dog, a kicked puppy. You're so used to being abandoned you latch on to the first person that shows you any sort of attention or appreciation. You're not in love with Sherlock, you're just pathetically loyal to him little brother. Just like you were to mummy, just like you were to Nathaniel," Harry laughed coldly. "Sherlock's no different, and if you were at all smart, you'd take my advice and get out now, he's all but offered you a clean break already by the look of it."

"Enough," John said finally standing up to leave.

"Tough love baby brother," Harry hiccuped shrugging. "You come back again when you need another wake up call. I'll be here," Harry called after him.

It was more than half an hours walk back to the apartment, but John decided not to hail a cab. Ten minutes, and two quiet streets later he was beginning to regret it. His limp had returned in full force. His entire leg seemed to throb, and the old bullet-wound in his shoulder ached. It wasn't real, but it certainly felt it. John had been trying hard not to think about Nathaniel. Between stopping his therapy, and his constant running about on cases with Sherlock it hadn't been so difficult to push all the unpleasant and painful memories to the back of his mind, and there had been no one to remind him, now it all came flooding back. Harry didn't have a damn clue what she was talking about, John thought angrily. Every footstep stomped the ground as though it had somehow offended him, ignoring the pangs in his leg as he marched back to 221B.

By the time he'd climbed the stairs to their flat his leg was in agony. The prospect of climbing still more steps to get to his room on the top floor seemed entirely too arduous, and so it was the doctor found himself collapsing on the couch, pulling the thin throw over himself and relaxing into the familiar and comforting scent that was Sherlock, and soon fell into an exhausted and fitful sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

For all his astonishing capacity for recall, Sherlock could not remember the last time he had been forced to lay this still, or felt this miserable. He wished he hadn't told John to go home. Now it was dark, and silent except for the steady hum and beep of machines, and the drip of his IV. Where the normal world for a man like Sherlock was almost too full of stimuli and things an ordinary human being would overlook this was a void, a black hole of nothingness, and loneliness. Loneliness?

Sherlock pondered this for a moment, but yes it was true, Sherlock was lonely. He missed John. Somehow, god only knew when, John had become an integral part of his overall contentment. Sure he had been known to become absorbed in his cases and not notice when his flatmate came or left, but it seemed that was only because of the certain knowledge that John would eventually be coming back. Now Sherlock had sent him away, told him he couldn't love him. What if John never came back? What if, when Sherlock was released from the hospital he returned to an empty Baker street?

No, he couldn't let that happen, he thought furiously shaking his head. He needed to get out of this bed, out of the damn hospital, he needed to get to John as soon as possible, persuade him to stay.

Sherlocks head snapped to attention at the sound of the door. How many hours had it been he had been lying here? Sherlock could not be certain, he had tried to avoid hospitals as much as possible since his mother had become ill, he wasn't familiar enough with the sounds and comings and goings to deduce what hour it might have been, and frantic thoughts of losing his John had caused him to lose track of the ticking of the ages ago. Was it morning, was it possible this was his flat-mate returning as he had said he would? It was definitely a man's footsteps that trailed into the room, not the female nurse who had been attending to him, checking in on him incessantly.

"John," Sherlock called out hopefully. Mycroft, Sherlock thought bitterly, his face souring when he heard the distinctive click of his brother's umbrella on the tile floor.

"Haven't given much thought to our conversation then," Mycroft said taking the chair beside his brother's bed.

"I sent him home didn't I," Sherlock replied scathingly, barely biting back a growl. His conversation with his brother a few hours ago about how unfair he was being keeping John around still echoed in his head. Was he being unreasonable? Unfair in wanting to keep John beside him? Maybe, but in the hours of his flatmate's absence, the voice demanding John's presence, more John at any cost seemed to have gotten louder, more persistent to combat it.

"So it would seem, but if your greeting is anything to go on, you expect Dr. Watson to come back this morning," his brother observed. Ah, so it was morning, maybe the idiot staff would see fit to finally let him leave this place and go home.

Yes, yes please, Sherlock thought rather desperately. One night without him, thinking of a life without John in it had nearly driven him mad. But he would be back, he had promised, hadn't he? John always came back, Sherlock thought trying to rationalize the rather uncomfortable and unexpected surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

"John loves me," Sherlock whispered, before realizing he had spoken these words aloud. Mycroft laughed.

"That was never in question Sherlock, everyone but you could see that from the very start. The question is whether or not being with him is what is best for you both."

"You never had any problem with me living with him before I was blind," Sherlock mumbled.

"Don't try to pretend you would have listened if I had," Mycroft laughed again. "I'm surprised you let him go home at all. Besides the circumstances were different then, you were solving cases and sharing a flat together, becoming lovers is another game entirely, even without blindness. I wonder if you know how to play it and if you're sure that's what you want."

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock repeated thinking of his elder brother's past taunt about his inexperience.

"Perhaps not in a theoretical capacity, but you've never actually experienced it first-hand," Mycroft countered evenly. "And a relationship is more than sex, Sherlock. He's a strong man, John Watson, but you have the power to crush him. If you were to change your mind... you could lose a flat-mate and a friend, perhaps your only friend. I'm not saying he isn't a wonderful man Sherlock, I'm saying you're not good enough for him."

Sherlock swallowed trying to conceal his emotions, but knowing all the while even with the bandages his brother would see them. Damnit.

"Not like this. You can't hide like this, we've been playing this game for years, but if you really want to be with Dr. Watson you're going to have to trust him, completely. You've been playing this 'high-functioning sociopath' part well, and it's kept you safe, but if you can't hold on to that facade and John at the same time. You have to let one of them go, the question is which one?"

Sherlock had the distinct impression his elder brother was speaking from personal experience, there was a hint of emotion, and what sounded like pain, perhaps regret in his voice that Sherlock was not used to or entirely comfortable hearing. Perhaps Mycroft Holmes had not always been "the Iceman," but Mycroft was quick to recover himself, and the distinctive scraping of the chair as he stood was unmistakable, and soon Sherlock was alone with his ever churning thoughts and far too many emotions once more.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock tried to ignore the sickening churning that seemed to come over him in waves as the car wound it's way through London and back to Baker Street. He had been too lost in thought when Anthea had helped him in to take note of their route and consequently found himself tortured by the thought of what seemed an eternity before they would reach the doorstep. Mycroft's assistant tapped away as ever on her Blackberry, no doubt trying to ignore looking at him. What a pitiful sight he must have been bandaged and so sloppily dressed. The nurses had attempted to help him, but in the end after he'd succeeded in barking and scaring all of them, they have left him to dress himself. Whatever his intellect, it was clear this was going to be an adjustment.

After some struggling with the key and arguing with Anthea, Sherlock assured her he could find his own way up the stairs to the flat he'd traversed a hundred times before on his own, he shut the door behind himself, leaning against it for a moment with a sigh.

John was still asleep, Sherlock thought surprised, but then, who could say what time of the morning it was. The detective had been too proud to ask. His flatmate's soft breathing indicated the doctor had fallen asleep on the couch. Strange that John would not have gone up to his own bedroom, he thought. But then perhaps he had slept in the living area to be nearer to the phone, in case he was needed. Ever the vigilant and caring man of medicine that he was, he thought almost affectionately.

Sunlight was streaming in the window when John woke some hours later, but it was the soft mournful tune that poured out of his flatmate's violin that had roused him from his sleep. For a moment, John dared to believe the events with Moriarty the day before had been nothing more than a bad dream. Sherlock stood at his usual place in front of the window, but the bandages were still there- his beloved flatmate was unable to see anything beyond the pane he stood in front of.

"Sherlock," John asked confused, waking up as he adjusted to his surroundings and pulled himself to a seated position on the couch. "I was going to pick you up, how did you get home?"

"Mycroft got a car," the detective shrugged, continuing to play.

"Why didn't you call me? And when did you have time to tidy up the place?"

"I thought you could use the rest, as to the cleaning, I believe our 'not-housekeeper' took it upon herself to organize and tidy up my things and experiments after she heard about the accident. Must have done it while you were out last night," John felt guilty, he should have thought of this, might have come home and helped tidy up for Sherlock it would have been more productive than seeing Harriet.

"I could have come and got you from the hospital, I didn't know when they would be releasing you so soon."

"Ah, well I may have told them I had a live in physician to attend to me so they'd as you say 'release me'. Besides I will have to get used to riding in a car alone sometime." John frowned, being blind seemed bad enough for someone as brilliant as Sherlock who lived his entire life around what he could observe, but to sit alone in total darkness, and complete silence the entire 40 minute ride from the hospital, waiting the many hours until his flatmate saw fit to wake up, seemed terribly lonely, even if Sherlock wasn't always one for talking. How long had he sat here alone in the dark before he'd found his violin?

"Wait, you told them I was your doctor," John asked, finally catching up. "Sherlock, I'm not qualified, that is I don't know very much about... You would have been much better off..."

"What? In the hospital? Being poked and prodded, questioned and tested by hundreds of strangers that I don't know, that I can't see, can't trust?" Sherlock didn't tell his flatmate about his panic attack after being woken in the middle of the night by a nurse who'd come to check on him, in his sleepy drug-induced haze he had thought it was Moriarty come to finish him off, shouting and ripping at his IV and bandages, screaming wildly for John. But as it turned out the detective didn't need to, John seemed to know instinctively why Sherlock could not spend another night in the hospital.

"Sherlock," John began softly, but what could he say that wouldn't sound like he pitied him? He did, but Sherlock wouldn't want to hear that, and it certainly wasn't all John felt for the man in front of him. Sherlock frowned slightly, at the sadness that filled the doctor's voice.

"They couldn't do anything more for me, but continue to change my bandages and pump me full of sedatives," Sherlock continued clearing his throat slightly, trying to steer the conversation somewhere, anywhere else, but John feeling sorry for him.

"Sherlock," John tried again, fighting to keep his voice as even and normal as possible. "Sherlock, you know.. you must know I would have stayed. I..." John stumbled, before finally asking the question that had been burning a hole in his chest since he had left the hospital last night. "Why did you send me away?" Was it my fault, he thought silently. For confessing how I felt-how I feel about you, he thought mournfully.

Sherlock concluded the tune he had been playing with a final beautiful and echoingly sorrowful note. John didn't really know all that much about music, and perhaps it was his feelings for the musician getting in the way, but it seemed to him that Sherlock could draw notes from his violin no other man could. Hauntingly beautiful melodies often filled the flat while his companion was deep in thought or perhaps simply needed a break from their most recent case. And even when such tunes had stirred him at ungodly early hours of the morning, John had to acknowledge his flatmate's musical skill.

He didn't recognize this tune. Not that John was an expert of any sort when it came to melodies on the Violin, but Sherlock had several favorite standbys, and John didn't recognize this tune. Had he composed something new? Before or after the accident that had rendered him blind? He couldn't possibly have seen to write the notes to paper, was he playing simply from memory and his own inventing? He was certainly more than capable of such skill. John found himself grateful, that at least the brilliant man he cared for had been able to retain something of his old life and habits.

"I'm ugly John," Sherlock whispered softly, gently laying the violin back in it's case, and falling into his chair.

"Sherlock, you haven't even removed the bandages yet, how on Earth could you possibly know that," John argued voice full of disbelief.

"I can feel it John."

John shook his head though he knew the other man would not see it. "You could never be ugly Sherlock," John replied softly. Sherlock chuckled, though a slight half-smile that lasted only a moment graced his face, before vanishing once more.

"Of course you would say that John, but you're wrong. I'm blind. I may never be able to see again, I am maimed John, pathetic, pitiful, there is no beauty in that."

"Don't be so dramatic. Maimed? You've lost your sight not the use of your limbs," John insisted firmly. Oh how he wanted to sit up, cross the room and wrap his arms around this ridiculous, infuriating, brilliant and gorgeous man. Just to hold him in his arms in some sort of comforting gesture, but if he started that John was sure he would never be able to let Sherlock go. "Just yesterday you were trying to convince me you were at peace with this, what's different today," the doctor prodded gently.

"I don't deserve someone like you, John. I never have, and now I never will," Sherlock replied softly shaking his head.

"Yes, but... I mean no. No. That's not true, Sherlock. That could never be true, you're brilliant. Absolutely brilliant, and I'm... Well I'm just John Watson. I'm-ordinary..."

"You were never ordinary John," Sherlock replied softly cutting off his rambling.

"Anyway, what does that matter Sherlock, you don't want me," John sighed softly sitting up from where he had been laying on the sofa.


End file.
